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I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

l'pon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel;

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies—those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets,

Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth, Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew bush-eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May; And cherry-blossoms, and white caps whose wine

Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge, There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt

with white; And starry river buds among the sedge

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

1 steal by lawns and grassy plots;

I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

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The purple petals fallen in the pool
Trailing Arbutus.

Made the black waters with their beauty gay-
Darlings of the forest !

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, Blossoming, alone,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.
When Earth's grief is sorest

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why
For her jewels gone -

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, have blown.

Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !
Tinged with color faintly,

I never thought to ask; I never knew,
Like the morning sky,

But in my simple ignorance suppose
Or, more pale and saintly,

The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought
Wrapped in leaves ye lie -

you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin,
Hymns your solitude ;

Nature.
And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be Because my feet find measure with its call; more rude.

The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,

For I am known to them, both great and small.
Were your pure lips fashioned

The flower that on the lonely hill-side grows
Out of air and dew,

Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given;
Starlight unimpassioned,

And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, Dawn's most tender hue,

And e’en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for For he who with his Maker walks aright, yout

Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
Fairest and most lonely,

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
From the world apart;

Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
Made for beauty only,

And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Veiled from Nature's heart

Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

JONES VERY. With such unconscious grace as makes the dream

of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

Song of Spring.
An immortal shade,
Then would I to-morrow

LAUD the first Spring daisies;
Such a flower be made,

Chant aloud their praises;
And live in the dear woods where my lost child- Send the children up
hood played.

ROSE TERRY COOKE. To the high hill's top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.
The Rhodora.

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies; LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER 9 Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills: In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Pluck the violets blue,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods

Ah, pluck not a few! Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven To please the desert and the sluggish brook:

the violet instils ?

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